You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” ((How do you respond?)) Raising an eyebrow at the recognition, Sioln'Maehrir checked the cushion to make sure it was acceptable to place herself down on. After a quick examination, they sat. "I'm not sure why I would be expected." the dark elf spoke, staring down the hag. "I just hope it would be for good reason. Now, where should I start." Sioln'Maehrir asked herself, thinking for a moment. Afterwards continuing to mutter. "I hail from Celia'nor. Two Dark Elf parents. Why they moved there, I have no idea. Never thought it relevant to ask." She clarified. "I, of course, learnt how to use a sword. Shortsword for me, I don't like those heavier weapons. When I got older, I decided that combat wasn't for me. Instead, I read, socialized. Those sorts of things. My life was mostly uneventful, until my parents decided that if I wasn't going to become a fighter, I'd be better off not living there. They gave me a small sum of money, and told me to come back when they could be proud of me." She continued, hint of bitterness obvious in her voice. "I moved to Fi'andria for a while, trying to make a living as a bookkeeper for businesses. But I just couldn't. Too boring for me. So, I set off, and now. I suppose I'm here." The Elf finished her tale, suspiciously looking around the room.
